The Worst Passenger in England
by Westron Wynde
Summary: No one was ever competent at anything in a week, declared Sherlock Holmes, eyeing my new car with dismay. On that point, I had to disagree. After all, I considered myself a very good driver. What Holmes thought, however, was quite another matter...
1. Part One

**A variation on a theme inspired by **_**Driven to Distraction**_** in the 'Plethora' series. As before, all the car facts are true, because I'm a secret enthusiast at heart. Does it show? **

* * *

_**The Worst Passenger in England**_

**Part One**

It was in the October of 1907, when the weather reflected the wealth of gold still upon the trees and the country basked in the last gift of the waning year, when I set out to call on my old friend, Mr Sherlock Holmes, late of London, now, so he was wont to tell me, happily ensconced on the South Downs with his bees.

I do not say that I disbelieved this assertion of his, but how a man who spent a good deal of his time warning me of the horrors of the countryside could ever find comfort in a lonely homestead was beyond me. He tells me it was always his intention to retire to some quiet, out of the way place and leave the travails of society far behind; however, I have evidence to the contrary in black and white on the printed page.

Still, we are all allowed to mellow with age, and I do not hold his departure from London against him, even if it does mean our contact has been reduced significantly. Letters and telegrams do not replace meetings in the flesh, and many is the day I have found myself traversing the Strand and gazing into Simpson's, remembering the times when the table by the window would have been ours at which to dine and to watch the ebb and flow of life in the busy street beyond.

Such were the fond remembrances that drew me to Sussex that bright Sunday. I left early, leaving behind the grey walls and dirty haze of the City, and soon found myself in pretty villages, where the church bells rang out and called the people to their devotions. Out here, the air was sweeter and, more refreshingly, the roads were empty so that I made good time to the coast.

I will not pretend that I did not have an ulterior motive in my visit. As pleasant as the prospect was of seeing Holmes again, I had the week before, taken possession of the handsomest motor car I had ever seen. Gleaming red paintwork, acres of brass, which demanded the utmost attention with polish and rag, and a shield-shaped radiator proudly bearing the name of the maker, Rover, were the outward features that had initially earned my admiration. Beneath the bonnet lay the real genius of the thing, a purring 4-cylinder engine, the first of its kind.

It is true that I was inordinately proud of it and, like any doting father, was never more pleased when others expressed their admiration also. I dare say there were better cars, but the 20 horse-power Rover Tourer suited me to a tee.

That such a car had won the International Tourist Trophy on the Isle of Man earlier in the year gave it the official stamp of approval. Here was an automobile that had proved its worth against others, speedy enough to satisfy that desire for excess acceleration often saw me daring to push the engine to its limits with its top speed of 50 miles per hour, and still practical for a doctor on his rounds. Today, however, I was using it as its creator had intended, for touring the English countryside, stopping along the route to impress Holmes with my purchase.

It was nigh on half past twelve when I pulled up outside his house. I paused to take in that great sweep of the Downs unto where chalk cliffs jutted perilously out over the sparkling ocean. Small fishing boats bobbed on the rise and fall of white horses that rushed to the shore to fall spent upon the beach, whilst high above seagulls filled the air with their calls and restless wanderings.

Again, I could not help musing on the disparity between the life my friend had chosen in his retirement and the peculiar character of his nature. His younger incarnation would have been driven to distraction and to vices far worse in such a place. I hoped for his sake that those old demons had been finally exorcised.

To my delight, I found that Holmes was at home, although temporarily engaged on the telephone. The door was opened by his old housekeeper, a woman who had lost the ability to distinguish thought from word, so that I was never sure whether I was supposed to answer her grumbles about irregular dining hours and the inconvenience of unexpected guests. Did I realise it was nearly lunchtime, said she. When I said yes, she gave me a sharp look as though I had rudely intruded on her innermost thoughts. I kept my own counsel after that.

Holmes was in the sitting room, deep in discussion with the crackling voice I could just hear coming from the earpiece. I fancied his face brightened when he saw me, although all he spared me was the wave of his unoccupied fingers in acknowledgement. I waited until finally he hung up the receiver with a sigh of exasperation.

"It's no good, Watson, I shall have to go," said he.

"Go? Where?"

"To Chichester, and this instant. There is not a moment to waste. Where is my Bradshaw?"

"Holmes, it's Sunday. There will be a limited service."

"I am quite aware of that. Now, let me see. Where did I put it? How are you, by the way, my dear fellow?"

"Well," I replied. "And yourself? You seem busy."

He gave a distracted shake of his head. "A matter of a miscarriage of justice," said he. "You've seen the paper?"

If I had, it would not have been the one to which Holmes gestured. The _Sussex Gazette_ was not a newspaper usually to be found in London, and was certainly not among my daily reading material. However, I was interested to see what had roused him into such a state of agitation and so cast my eye over the front page. _'Brutal Slaying in Fulworth'_ ran the headline, followed by_ 'Nephew Arrested'_.

I was not entirely surprised. To suppose that Holmes had given up all interest in crime simply because he had retired was akin to asking a bird to refrain from flying. Age may have clipped his wings somewhat, but the old instinct was as keen as it ever was.

"You have some information about this business?" I asked.

"Indeed. The nephew, Martin Pringle, is quite innocent." An exclamation of frustration escaped him as he tossed the Bradshaw onto the sofa. "The last train left an hour ago!"

"Will it not wait?"

I knew before I said it what Holmes's response was likely to be. He had the bit between his teeth, as the racing expression has it, and every determination to see the business through today. Of course, the answer to the transportation problem was elementary.

"No, Watson, it will not wait. Young Pringle is a good enough lad, though something of a wantwit. He must be liberated this day, or who knows what damage may be done to his fragile state of mind?" He sang out for the housekeeper. "Inform Mr Carter that I need carriage to Chichester."

"He's away seeing his daughter in Chepstow, Mr Holmes," said the elderly lady.

He banged his fist on the table. "Confound the fellow, so he is! In the heat of the moment, I had forgotten. Well, my dear fellow, are you equal to the challenge of a twenty-three mile walk? Since we cannot ride, then we must provide our own transport."

"I have no objections, although it would make greater sense if I drove us there. I have the car outside."

Holmes paused and I noticed a wary look come into his eye. "You have purchased a motor car?"

"Indeed I have. Come and see."

"I'm afraid I cannot congratulate you, Watson. You of all people I wish long life and happiness, which I fear you will now never attain."

I scoffed at this overly-dramatic statement. "Really, Holmes, it is quite safe. I am a competent driver."

"How long have you had it?"

"A week."

"No one was ever competent at anything in a week, Watson."

"I have known people meet and marry in less time than that."

"And regretted it at their leisure, I dare say." Holmes tutted impatiently. "However, the parallel is not exact. The taking of a wife does not ultimately result in serious injury and death."

I could not contain my amusement. "You say that, after all the cases we have investigated where wives have killed their husbands?"

He shrugged lightly. "I concede that you may have a point. However, my reservations remain."

"Well, if this business is as important as you say, it may be worth the risk of trusting to my four wheels instead of your two feet."

He clearly retained his misgivings, although he was gracious enough to at last acknowledge the truth of my statement. All the same, he did not go without a fight. Never has a man been dragged so unwillingly into a motor car as Holmes was that afternoon.

First, he insisted on checking that all four tyres were inflated and firmly attached to the vehicle, watched with much amusement by myself and his housekeeper. Then he stood before it and remarked that it seemed to him that one wheel was out of true. I assured him it was nothing of the sort. This led onto the question of whether I had a spare tyre should we get a puncture. I pointed to the spare mounted on the driver's side. By the time he had got round to asking whether I had a spare to replace the spare, I had quite lost patience.

"Holmes, are you coming or not?"

"It is important to be sure about these things," said he. "I am now quite satisfied."

"Good. Get in."

He obliged and I went to the front to turn the starting handle. The engine growled into life with a lion-like roar proclaiming its readiness for the journey ahead. I clambered into the driver's seat and spared a glance at my passenger, whose face had suddenly become ashen. I grinned as I released the handbrake and engaged the gears, only to see his expression become ever more troubled, and before he could raise a protest, we were on the move.

We chuffed through the little village that lay a mile or so north of his cottage, causing a great stir as we did so. Children left their games to stare and point, and women paused in their gossip to follow our progress with wondering eyes. Even the landlord of the village inn came to the door and waved cheerily as we passed by.

"Keep your hands on the steering wheel," said Holmes tightly.

I noted that his posture was as rigid as a wash board, and that his fingers were turning white where he was gripping the dashboard with some force.

"I am quite in control," I sought to reassure him. "Do try to relax a little."

"I dare not drop my guard for one second," said he. "And you would be well advised to slow down before you earn yourself a penalty for excessive speed."

"I am allowed to travel at 20mph under the terms of the 1903 Motor Car Act."

"That maybe so, but these people are my neighbours, Watson. I have no wish to become labelled as a public nuisance because I allow my friend to charge up and down the High Street in his noisy motor car. They are quite particular about such things here. One digression is liable to see my weekly delivery of groceries terminated."

"Goodness, Holmes, what a thrilling life you must lead. Threats to cut off your supplies indeed – whatever next?"

I felt his gaze turn upon me. "Do not imagine I miss the sarcastic tone of your voice," said he. "Such flippancy does you little credit."

"If so, it is because I cannot imagine you being satisfied by such trifles as whether or not your groceries are to be delivered. It's hardly the stuff of our previous adventures, is it?"

"Ah, there you are mistaken. The observance of trifles is as important here as it ever was in Baker Street. I was not here a month before I realised that village life is a microcosm of the wider world. I dare say that anyone with a deep understanding of its dynamics would be able to apply the same principles to any given situation in city life and come to a satisfactory conclusion."

"Nonsense," I scoffed.

"Then let me give you an example. The butcher's boy came to my door with bloodied knees only yesterday and I startled him with the reassurance that his parents' disagreement would not last long and he should not trouble himself unduly."

"Was it any of your business?"

"There is no such thing as privacy in the countryside. Everyone knows everything about everyone else. The marital troubles of the butcher and his wife are common knowledge. Warfare is their usual state. I myself gauge the state of their relationship from the condition of sausages they sell."

"And what do they tell you?"

"If they are plump and generous, then all is well. If they are on the lean side, then you may rest assured that matters are far from cordial. In the instance of the butcher's boy, it was obvious to me that he had fallen from his bicycle in delivering my order. He is an able cyclist, but prone to make mistakes when hurrying. Thus, that morning he had been hurrying. He only hurries when his father is out of sorts and is late packing the orders. What should cause such a state? Well, the obvious, naturally. I had no doubt that peace would reign again in their household by evening. Do watch out for Farmer Giles's sheep, my dear fellow. It would be unconscionable to run one over."

The sheep in question were safe in a field behind a thick hedge and with five-bar gate. He was worrying unnecessarily. Indeed, Holmes was proving to be one of the worst sort of passengers, who, although not able to drive themselves, think they know better than the person behind the wheel. It would have been amusing had his constant remarks not started to become tedious. Now I was anxious to take his mind off the twenty miles that we still had to travel.

"Do you like it, Holmes?" I inquired.

"Retirement? One gets used to a slower pace of life, although I have not entirely abandoned my former interests."

"Actually, I meant the car."

"Oh, I do beg your pardon. Yes, Watson, it's most…"

"Impressive?"

"I was going to say expensive. How much did this much-vaunted collection of nuts and bolts cost you?"

"£450."

"Good heavens," said he. "The price of folly rises every year."

"I consider it a good investment. I shall be saving a small fortune in cab fares."

"But what of the poor cab driver? These mechanised monsters will be the ruin of his business. If the rest of the population think as you do, then we shall soon see the complete removal of horse-drawn vehicles from our roads and what a loss that will be."

"Like it or not, Holmes, it is the future. A motor car makes less mess than a horse."

"Although the smell is as equally objectionable in both cases. Mind that tree."

"I am nowhere near the tree, unless you imagine it is about to leap out into the road in front of us?"

"Do not be crass, Watson. I merely point it out, nothing more. Have we picked up speed?"

"No," I lied. We were in fact touching 35mph in third gear with very little strain on the engine at all. "Why do you ask?"

"It seems faster. I wish now I had had the foresight to bring a hat."

"It is a quite lovely day," said I. "Surely you do not feel the cold?"

He shrugged. "More than ever these days. I seem to be plagued by draughts, an unhappy condition that worsens with every passing day." I sensed he was smiling, although I dared not look round to confirm my theory. "Well, tell me."

"About?"

"This chugging brute, your pride and joy. This is the reason why you came down today?"

"Not exactly. I came to visit you."

Out of the corner of his eye, I saw him shake his head. "My dear fellow, there is no need to prevaricate. You are proud and rightly so. This is the fruit of all those hours spent tending worrisome patients and toiling over your writing desk. It may not be the reward I would have chosen, but I will not deny that it does have its merits."

I risked a glance at him. His posture had relaxed somewhat and I had the distinct impression that he was starting to enjoy the ride.

"I thought you disapproved?"

"You do not need my approbation, and I will admit that this is not entirely unpleasant. But do keep your eyes on the road."

"It's a handsome thing, isn't it?"

"An observation that proves conclusively that old maxim that beauty is in the eye of the beholder. If you say so, I am perfectly willing to take your word for it."

"The real genius is that the engine is a load-bearing part of the framework."

"Fascinating," said he, in a voice which lacked any real sincerity.

"Along with the suspension and the gearbox, it can be unbolted and removed for servicing."

"Most commendable."

For some time now, I have been aware that Holmes does not share my interest in automobiles. For a while, he diligently studied the literature on the subject and listened to my explanations about camshafts and the advantages of having separate casings for each cylinder head. I was not entirely ignorant of the fact that, for most of the time, he was merely being polite.

The basest instances of human nature are of the greatest fascination for him, but mankind's successes less so. I have yet to see him roused by the news of a racing triumph or the latest development to come out of the Coventry factories. Give him murder and misery and he is the happiest fellow on the planet. Give him the details of the construction of a four cylinder engine and his eyes glaze over, as they had done so now. I decided a little test was in order to wake him from his stupor.

"Yes, I've got four trained puppies beneath the bonnet running as fast as they can," I said lightly.

"Ingenious," Holmes murmured. An instant later, I saw his expression change. "Puppies?"

I laughed. "You are not paying the slightest of attention to what I am saying, are you?"

He nodded. "Forgive me, my mind is on other things."

"This business that necessitates a trip to Chichester?"

"Yes, that. I was not altogether surprised when they arrested young Pringle for the murder of his aunt, for he stands to inherit her considerable fortune. However, I find myself in a position to be of some assistance to the young fellow, thanks to _The Duchess of Malfi_."

"Someone you know?"

"The play, Watson, put on last night by the Fulworth Amateur Dramatic Society, amateur being an apt description for their efforts. The fellow playing the brother was most ill-chosen in my opinion, and one suspects that his being the local magistrate had something to do with it. The man was obviously nervous and fairly mangled his lines when he could remember them at all. But that is beside the point. I was passing the Pig and Whistle public house on my way to the theatre when I happened to notice Pringle at the window seat with a young lady."

"And the significance of this?"

"Well, he could have hardly been in two places at once. At the time his aunt was being murdered, he was otherwise engaged with a member of the fairer sex. I should mention that it is my considered opinion that murder was not done in this case at all. Mrs Wood, the aunt, was a most peculiar woman, fiercely jealous of other members of her sex and fixated with the idea that she was alluring to all men."

"She was not?"

"She was eighty-six and toothless. Her nephew was her only relative and she guarded him most closely. I suspect that mental decline had begun to addle her senses. By some means, she came to hear of her nephew's fondness for the lady I saw him with, and decided on a course of action to punish her faithless nephew."

"You mean, suicide? That's a bit drastic, isn't it?"

"She believed she had lost him to another woman. In her own confused way of thinking, she had lost her reason for living. What she could not have, nor would anyone else. Mind you give this fellow on the bicycle a wide berth, Watson."

"He's on the other side of the road, Holmes. Don't fuss so. You deduced all this just from reading the paper?"

He nodded. "That, and an intimate knowledge of my neighbours. I do not say I actively seek cases, but I have had the good fortune to have several drop unbidden into my lap, as it were. Under the circumstances, it seemed churlish to refuse to investigate. Why, only in July, a young science master from the local school was found dead on the beach."

"You investigated?"

"Naturally."

"And brought the murderer to justice?"

"After a fashion."

I sensed there was more to this story than he cared to mention. "Well, do go on."

He sniffed. "I'm afraid I cannot. Please do not take this personally, my dear fellow, but I intend to write this story up myself. It seems the logical thing to do, seeing as how I was on the scene."

"You are always on the scene."

"But you were not, and therein lies the rub."

"In that case, I shall look forward to reading it. Ah, here we are."

I guided the car to a stop outside Chichester County Prison and waited while Holmes went inside. Several young men clad in their Sunday best with ladies on their arms stopped to express their praise for my vehicle, so that the time seemed to pass very quickly indeed. When Holmes did return a little over half an hour later, it was with a thin, nervous young man of about twenty at his side.

"My friend, Dr Watson," said Holmes, making the introductions. "Watson, this is Martin Pringle. Lucky for us, Inspector Bardle of the Sussex Constabulary was on hand. We had some dealings a while back and he was ready to accept my word on the matter without a second thought. Sorry to keep you waiting, my dear fellow, but I insisted on making a statement. There's much to be said for observing formalities in such cases. It saves misunderstandings at a later date."

"I am indebted to you both," said Pringle. "Especially to you, Dr Watson, for I understand you took the time to drive Mr Holmes here. But for his timely intervention, I might have had to spend another night in that awful place. May I say," he added, "that I am something of an automobile enthusiast myself, although my dear aunt never approved. That is the Rover 20, is it not?"

I could not help the smile of delight that came to my face. "It is indeed."

"A most handsome vehicle. You are most fortunate, sir."

Holmes cleared his throat. "All's well that ends well, I'm glad to say. Good day to you, Mr Pringle."

"I must not keep you," said the young fellow. "After close confinement, the walk to Fulworth will be most welcome."

I sensed he wanted transportation to his destination, but was too polite to ask directly. After the gracious remarks he had made about my new car, I was inclined to feel kindly towards him.

"Fulworth? Well, that's on our way, isn't it, Holmes?" said I.

A scowl settled on Holmes's face that I assiduously ignored. He may not have approved, but until the day came that he purchased his own motor car, who I invited into mine was no business of his.

"That's very kind of you, Dr Watson," said Pringle. "Are you sure you don't mind?"

Holmes opened his mouth to protest, but I quickly cut in. "Of course not. We'll have you home in no time at all."

At least that was my intention. The reality, however, proved to be somewhat different.

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_Continued in Part Two!_


	2. Part Two

_**The Worst Passenger in England**_

**Part Two**

Our journey back to Fulworth took us past open fields and along high-hedged lanes. Every now and then, elderly trees punctuated the continuous green barrier, shaped into strange twisted shapes by the prevailing winds that blew in from the coast. Stunted apple trees carried the last of the season's harvest, whilst many a stately oak bore a heavy growth of mistletoe, rich pickings for hungry birds with a liking for the plump berries. The air was thick with the smells of autumn, of decay and wood fires, and the lanes were painted in hues of red and gold as the trees shed their leaves in anticipation of winter.

All Nature seemed alive that afternoon, from the merry call of competing robins to the plaintive lowing of cattle in the meadows we passed. It was a tonic to warm the heart of any hardened city dweller, but I am sorry to say that the greater part of its beauty was lost on me.

Pringle proved to be a most interesting young fellow, possessed of a wealth of knowledge on all things appertaining to the motor car and the workings of the internal combustion engine. As he explained it, his aunt's condition had obliged him to remain at home a good deal, and as he was no gardener, he had turned to books, in particular those on the subject of the automobile. He certainly put my poor knowledge to shame that afternoon.

Holmes was less impressed. He said very little as we sped along past sleepy vills and remote homesteads. The expression of displeasure on his face had remained since our departure from Chichester and was now accompanied by a distant look in his eye, which told that his thoughts were far from our present conversation.

For myself, it made a change to have a companion who shared a similar interest and was able to talk in great detail about the specifications of the latest Fiat, rather than one who gave half an ear to me and the rest to the worse machinations of the human mind. I dare say we bored Holmes with our talk, and for that I made no apology. He has his interests, which I have tolerated for many a while, and I have mine. That they do not always meet to the satisfaction of both parties is inevitable.

In fact, I had the strongest reason for believing that he had known about Pringle's enthusiasm for the subject all along, which was why he had been resistant to the idea of my offering to drive him home. I had no intention of embarrassing him in front of our guest by putting this supposition to him outright, although I take exception to the fact that Holmes believes his motives are a mystery to anyone but himself. I, of all people, know him too well to be deceived.

"And the new Brooklands Race Track promises to be a most exciting venue," Pringle was enthusing as we passed a signpost for Fulworth.

Five miles, it had said. I smiled to myself. Five miles more for Holmes to endure our ceaseless chatter. As if in agreement with my thoughts, he let out a long sigh.

"I had hoped to make it to the inaugural meeting," the young fellow went on. "I suppose I shall be able to do so now that my aunt has passed away. Poor auntie," he added sadly. "She was a strange and unhappy soul. Very troubled at heart. I tried to persuade her to purchase a motor car so that I could take her out of the house more, but she would not have it."

"Not quite as deranged as we thought then," Holmes muttered ungraciously beside me.

"I'm sure you did all you could, Mr Pringle," I said, glancing back over my shoulder to console him. "You have my condolences."

"Watson, for heaven's sake, look out!"

Holmes's warning was timely. I had taken my eyes off the road for a second. Now I looked back to find that the way ahead was blocked by a solid wall of stationary cows.

I put my foot on the brakes with some force and we were momentarily lifted from our seats as the vehicle came to a halt. Young Pringle was less fortunate and was pitched headfirst into the front seat with us. His legs waved helplessly like so many straws in the breeze while his head came to rest under the dashboard. The poor fellow was quite dazed, so that it took Holmes and myself some little time to extract him from his predicament.

Back on his feet, he appeared none the worse for his experience; indeed he seemed quite exhilarated.

"My, my," he declared breezily, "how very sharp your brakes are, Dr Watson. Quite took me by surprise. May we try that again?"

"No!" Holmes snapped. His normal sense of composure seemed to have deserted him for the moment, as evidenced by the unequal drape of his coat around his shoulders and the lock of hair that had slid down his forehead. In such a state, I sensed his next words were not to be happy ones.

"Watson, really. You are a veritable menace in this car of yours."

"That is entirely unfair," I protested. "Whoever left these cows milling about in the middle of the road is to blame, not I!"

Holmes regarded me with a less than tolerant eye. "This is the countryside. What do you expect?"

"I expect the cattle to be in a field, not wandering the highways and byways."

"The typical response of a town dweller. Happy to consume the farmer's wares, but ever grumbling when faced with the actualities of his life."

"I have said nothing of the sort, Holmes. All I have questioned is the wisdom of his leaving his livestock turned loose in the roads. It is an accident waiting to happen."

"Which it almost did." Holmes snorted. "You seem to have abandoned all of your natural caution since setting foot behind the wheel of this infernal contraption. You have become quite reckless in your dotage, Doctor."

I saw that we were about to tread old ground if we pursue this line of argument. Holmes had been set against my taking to the road from the first. No amount of discussion on the subject was ever likely to alter our opposing positions. One thing, however, was indisputable.

"Did we hit anything?" said I.

"Only by good fortune and my intervention."

"But did we?" He was forced to concede the point. "Then you are making mountains out of molehills, Holmes. Get back in the car. We shall reverse and find an alternative route to Fulworth."

"Thank you, but no. I would rather walk."

"That is your prerogative. Come, Mr Pringle, we shall continue our journey."

I was reluctant to leave him there, with only a herd of curious cattle for company, but Holmes, when he has made up his mind, is intractable. I was not about to waste my breath trying to persuade him otherwise. Besides, I have often found that Holmes will tend to relent more willingly when not battered with arguments to the contrary.

He watched me with his chin sunk on his chest as I turned the starting handle and brought the engine back into life. I wondered how long he was going to wait before he capitulated and for a while I thought it would not come. Then, as I started to reverse back the way we had come, I heard his call.

"Wait," said he. "Having given the matter some thought, it seems I will have to come with you after all."

I halted the car and Pringle shifted himself into the back seat to allow Holmes to climb up beside me.

"Glad you could join us," I said when he had settled himself in.

"I do this out of concern for you, my dear fellow, nothing more. Someone must keep you alert to the dangers of these country roads."

"And for that you have my gratitude, especially as I know you have sacrificed the pleasure of hiking seven miles home to accompany me on this onerous journey."

He essayed a brief smile, in acknowledgement that I was not far from the truth. "Well, it is rather late, and having missed lunch, one does not like to compound one's folly by missing supper into the bargain. No, I am quite prepared to take my life in my own hands and allow you to convey me to my home."

"Most gracious of you, Holmes. Now which way to Fulworth from here?"

"You will have to return to Byminster and take the coast road," said he. "A round journey of some twelve miles, which at the speed you drive should take us very little time at all. Oh, and do be careful of Mr Johnson's dog."

I glanced around and saw nothing. "What dog? Where?"

"The one that lives with Mr Johnson in the old toll house on the Byminster road."

"Really, Holmes. I do believe you are possibly the worst passenger any driver has ever had to endure in England. Try to have a little faith in my driving."

"Better to be aware of these things in advance."

"Excuse my interruption," said Pringle, leaning over the front seats between us. "But Fulworth is just over there. You can see the spire of St Edward's in the distance. Wouldn't it be easier to cut across this field and save ourselves time?"

"Capital idea," I said. "Holmes, would you get the gate?"

He gave me the sort of look one saves for admonishing small children. "Watson, is this wise? The rains have been rather heavy of late."

"Nonsense. The ground looks as solid as a rock."

"You don't think it would be in order if we stepped out to lighten the load?"

"Oh, no, Mr Holmes," spoke up Pringle. "Quite the contrary. Indeed, I have read that added weight lends traction to the driving wheels."

Holmes looked dubious, but shrugged. "Well, I am no expert, but it seems to me—"

"If you wouldn't mind, the gate?" I reminded him before he began a summation of his thoughts on the matter.

"I would rather not," said he. "I am wearing my best shoes and the ground is muddy."

"Allow me," said Pringle, letting himself down over the side of the car.

"Are you determined to be awkward today, Holmes?" I said when our fellow passenger was out of earshot. "Retirement has changed you, to be sure. I do not seem to remember you being quite so obstreperous."

"My dear fellow, it is simply that I have no desire to be party to folly. No man should ever be forced to aid his own descent into idiocy, especially not when he knows his own mind in the matter."

"You think we will become stuck fast in that field, don't you?"

"Oh, I know so." He took a cigarette from his case and lit it. "But, please, do not let me dissuade you from your purpose. As ye sew, so shall ye reap."

In truth, I had had my doubts. Hearing Holmes's scathing thoughts on the matter, however, hardened my resolve more than I dare say was wise. I nosed the car through the gap, waited for Pringle to close the gate and rejoin us, and then set out across the field.

The passage of many generations of cows had left the land rutted and uneven. This, added to the Rover's sensitive suspension, meant that our progress was a good deal bumpier than I would have liked. After a full minute of being tossed around like a fishing boat on a stormy ocean, I reduced our speed to a more comfortable crawl and the ride became smoother.

Despite Holmes's forewarning, we were making good time. Fulworth loomed ever larger, with its array of tiled roofs and spires, set off by the sight of the ocean sparkling behind it. I was about to remark to my taciturn companion that an apology and an admission that he had been mistaken might be in order – a rare occurrence if ever there was one, and consequently never to be missed – when I felt the unmistakeable sensation of tyres slipping on soggy grass.

I slowed, engaged a lower gear and tried to ease the car forward. The engine squealed, the wheels turned, but we did not move an inch.

"Oh dear," said Holmes unconcernedly. "Are we stuck?"

"No," I said obstinately, although it was quite evident that that was indeed the case.

"Then why aren't we moving?"

It was a reasonable question, except I knew full well, as he did, that he was already well aware of the answer.

"I shall have to investigate," I returned. "I shan't be but a minute."

"Investigate by all means, my dear fellow, although even I, with my limited knowledge of the motor car, am able to deduce that we are stuck fast."

"Yes, I fear you are correct, Mr Holmes," said young Pringle. "The earth is quite churned up beneath us."

I descended from the car and squelched across boggy earth to get a better view of our situation. It was a lamentable sight. The lower rims of the wheels were submerged in liquid mud and the gleaming red paintwork bore splashes of grime and torn grass. I was annoyed, both at myself for agreeing to such a hare-brained scheme in the first place, and at Holmes, for the smug expression I now saw on his face as he sat quietly smoking.

"The ground is a little sticky," I said to him. "You'll have to get out and help us push."

"You wouldn't rather I stayed here? I understand that extra weight adds traction to the driving wheels."

"Holmes, get out this instant and lend a hand."

Descend he did, rather grudgingly, tiptoeing across the mire to a watch our efforts from the safety of relatively dry land.

"Aren't you going to help?" I asked.

"No, I think I am quite content where I am, thank you, Watson."

"Well, don't strain yourself."

A chuckle was all I got in reply, and it was left to Pringle and myself to do what we could to shift the car. First we heaved, then we tried rocking it. The car refused to budge. By the time we paused in our efforts to catch our breath, my legs were caked as high as the knee and I had somehow managed to smear a coating of mud across one of my cheeks. Moreover, I was disconcerted to see that we were attracting an audience.

An elderly man, with bushy whiskers and an old clay pipe stuck in the side of his mouth, was leaning over the wall and watching us with interest.

"Good day to you, sir," I called out to him. "I don't suppose you could help us?"

"Nope," said he in his slow Sussex drawl. "Ye know what ye are, don't ye?"

"No. What?"

"Ye be stuck, that's what ye be."

Clearly, here was a sage for our time, dispensing wisdom of the most obvious kind to souls in distress who neither needed nor wanted his advice. Worse still, Holmes seemed to be finding the situation very amusing, which did nothing to improve my temper.

The man sniffed long and hard. "Ye be wanting someone to pull ye out the mud."

"Yes. Do you know anyone who can help?"

"Ye need an 'orse, that's what ye need."

"Do you have one?"

"Nope. I got me ram with me. But he's no good to ye, unlessing ye got a ewe in season."

I gestured to Holmes, who deigned to venture as near as possible without getting himself dirty. "Who is this fellow?" I whispered.

"Farmer Giles. He's a hard-working man and a neighbour of mine, so please be gracious, Watson. He did stop by to help."

"Well, he isn't. And if it comes to that, neither are you. I do believe that you are enjoying this woeful situation."

"Oh, my dear fellow, I take no pleasure in another man's suffering, least of all yours. In the case of our garrulous companion, however, I might be inclined to make an exception."

At that very moment, Pringle let out a startled cry. I turned in time to see his feet slip from under him. He scrabbled at the mudguard for a handhold, missed and slid down onto his face in the mud. I hurried over as fast as I could and helped him up. From head to toe, he was smothered in a sloppy mix of animal excreta, mud and mashed up grass.

"My dear sir," said I. "How very unfortunate."

"Not at all," said he. "It was my own fault. I was sure I felt your car move just a little and over-compensated. I am sure that if we put our backs into it, we will succeed this time!"

"I believe our efforts would be in vain, Mr Pringle. As to your current state, you really must return home with all due haste and change before you catch cold."

He glanced down at his appearance. "It's not so bad," he said brightly. "After all, I can hardly get any dirtier than I already am."

"Really, I must insist."

"You would do well to heed my friend Watson's advice," said Holmes. "He is indeed an expert in such matters. And Fulworth is but a short distance away. Set yourself a brisk pace and you should be home within the half hour."

"But are you quite sure? I am reluctant to leave you in such difficulties after your kindness of earlier."

"Think nothing of it. I dare say we shall be home ourselves before sundown."

"Then, goodbye, Mr Holmes, Dr Watson. Thank you to you both."

"Thank heavens for that," Holmes muttered, as he watched the miserable fellow squelch out of the field. "I thought we would never be rid of him. Now, you require some assistance, do you not, Watson? Farmer Giles," said he, addressing the elderly farmer. "Am I right in thinking that Farmer Atwell has a fine pair of Shires?"

"Aye, that he does."

"Capital. Would you mind asking him to step this way with his two beasts to render a little assistance to a stranded traveller?"

"I doubt that, Mr Holmes. He be out ploughing today."

He produced a shilling from his pocket. "Might this make him change his mind?"

Farmer Giles regarded the coin and chewed thoughtfully on the end of his pipe. "I dare say it would. Another o'them might get me on my way too."

A second shilling was duly handed over and the man went on his way, with his ram following behind him.

"He named it after the king, you know," said Holmes, watching the pair wander away down the lane. "Although a less ardent beast one could not hope to find."

"What? He calls his ram Edward? Isn't that rather disrespectful?"

Holmes tutted. "No, King Charles II. The ram's name is Old Rowley. Do try to keep up, Watson."

"Sorry, old fellow. As you keep reminding me, I am unused to country ways." I took out my handkerchief and wiped my dirty hands. "Well, what do we do now?"

"We wait. Atwell won't be long. I saw him ploughing in the other field as we passed by earlier." He found himself a flat stone by the dry stone wall and seated himself upon it. "You don't have anything to eat in that car of yours, I suppose?"

I shook my head. "I've got some motor oil, but that's about it."

Holmes grimaced. "Hardly what I had in mind." He fished out his cigarette case and looked inside. "And out of tobacco too. What a tiresome afternoon this is proving to be. May I prevail upon your supply, Watson, until I can replenish mine?"

I took a seat beside him and found great pleasure in taking the weight off my feet. "Can't oblige, I'm afraid. I've given up."

His expression was one of scandalised outrage.

"On the advice of a fellow doctor," I explained. "He said it was bad for my chest, and I must say I have been breathing easier for it." I eyed him reprovingly. "You might consider cutting down too, Holmes. I noticed you were a little wheezy earlier."

He dismissed my suggestion out of hand. "I am in fine physical shape. Indeed, I go as far as to say that I have never felt better."

"Then what are you doing here, mouldering away in the countryside?"

He stared at me hard for a long moment, before looking away, out towards the distant prospect of Fulworth. "What is it you're asking me, Watson?"

"You know very well what. It's the same question I've been asking you these last few years."

"Why I retired."

"Exactly. One minute you were happily ensconced at Baker Street, the next you told me that you had bought a place in the country and were giving up your practice to keep bees. I know you are given to bouts of extraordinary energy, but even for you I thought it was a little out of the ordinary." I watched his expression closely to gauge his reaction. "You never did tell me why."

A smile twitched the corners of his mouth. "And now, when we are at the mercy of the elements, you believe is the time to ask?"

"I think you would agree that you are a captive audience."

He nodded in agreement. Plucking a long strand of grass, he began to weave it into an intricate knot while he spoke.

"Well, there is no great mystery. I simply became tired, my dear fellow. Oh, not of the cases, even though they were beginning to lack what you might call any ounce of originality. Rather it was a realisation that those who had numbered amongst my peers were appearing with alarming regularity not in the society columns, but in the obituaries."

"My dear fellow."

"And it grew increasingly to concern me that one day I might open my copy of _The Times_ to find your name numbered there amongst the dearly departed."

This admission gave me pause. "Why would you think that?"

He drew his lips into a thin line and gave a tight shake of his head. "That business with Killer Evans, Watson, it was not well done, even if I say so myself. You are not as fleet of foot as once you were, my old friend."

"It came out well enough in the end."

"Only after you had had to endure a blood-letting. No, after that, the consideration preyed upon my mind a good deal. And fifty had always struck me as round, complete number on which to conclude a career, thus giving twenty years to pursue one's other interests before the allotted three score years and ten are up."

I must admit that his words did not rest easy with me, but produced the most intense feelings of disquiet and sadness, so that I was quite unable to speak for several minutes.

"This conversation of ours seems to have unsettled you," Holmes remarked at last. "You did ask, Watson."

"Yes. But I had not realised until now that your misplaced concern was the catalyst for your decision to retire. I find it a heavy burden to bear."

He considered. "I do not say it was the _only_ reason, my dear fellow, although perhaps it was the most important. You must have known that our practice could not continue indefinitely. We could hardly chase criminals in our bath chairs."

"Granted."

"And the old order changeth," he went on with a long sigh. "I was beginning to a feel as a stranger to London, there was so much that I did not recognise. If one cannot endure change, then one must step aside. Therefore, here I am, in this pleasant untouched corner of the world."

"It will not remain as such forever, Holmes."

He nodded in acknowledge of that fact. "But at least I have a chance to adjust at my own pace. Although," he added, directing his gaze to my car, "even here I find that it is thrust upon me sooner than I would prefer. Well, perhaps it is for the best. Change must be embraced sooner or later, and I cannot deny that this 'hobby' of yours gives you a great deal of pleasure, even if I could wish for you a less hazardous pastime. It is a pretty toy to be sure, but I think you would agree that it has its limitations."

"Because we have become stuck in the mud? I would call that rather a lapse of judgement rather than a limitation."

"My point exactly, and another lapse is all that it will take. A delay this time, a fatal misfortune the next. No, my dear fellow, it will not do."

"Holmes, you exaggerate."

He gave a considered shrug. "Perhaps I do. At least, I hope that I do. But I think you must agree that neither you nor it is indestructible. Pride and falls, Watson, one comes before the other as surely as night comes before day. Ah, but here comes Farmer Atwell. Good day to you, sir!"

Barely had I time to digest his words than I glimpsed strolling towards us a red-cheeked bulky man with two huge black Shire horses. They made short work of heaving my car from the muddy field and presently Holmes and I were homeward bound. He had given me too much to think on to be sociable so that what little time remained to us passed in silence. I let him out at his door and he stepped smartly down.

"You will stay for supper?" he asked.

"I'm afraid I cannot. If I am to crawl back to London at ten miles an hour, I fear I must start now if I wish to be home before tomorrow."

He accepted this with a smile. "Then Godspeed, my old friend. And do not leave it so long in future. You know that you are always welcome, even if you insist on bringing this contraption with you." He patted the front wing. "Should it become a frequent sight outside my front door, I am sure that I could come to tolerate it."

"Should you ever reconsider your current position and take up your old occupation once again, that might well happen."

"On that point, I am afraid I cannot be held to any rash promises. No persuasion in the world would sway me from my resolve or any amount of money compensation enough for me to consider leaving this quiet hearth. No, unless it was a matter of national import, here I shall remain."

"All the same, should such a matter present itself…"

He smiled. "You shall be the first to know, and we shall totter after criminal masterminds on our sticks, and tell the young how different it was in our day. Now, go, before the wandering cattle wend their merry way in this direction and conspire to keep you here overnight. I would not have it said that I kept you unduly from your homeward journey, as agreeable as that prospect might be."

"You have my word that I will take care."

This seemed to satisfy him. "Good, because otherwise I shall stop taking _The Times_. Goodbye, Watson, and safe journey."

I engaged the gears and the car pulled eagerly away. I had one last sight of Holmes in my mirror before I turned onto the main road. There he stood, barricaded against the winds of change by his fence and sturdy cottage walls, the worst of passengers perhaps, but the best and most sorely missed of friends anywhere in England.

**The End**

* * *

_**Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson are the creations are Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Characters and incidents mentioned in this work are entirely fictitious. This work of fan fiction has not been created for profit nor**__** authorised**__** by any official body.**_


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